Guilty Series (97 page)

He frowned, uncomprehending. “Like?”

“Yes. Are they young? Handsome?”

He lifted a fist to his mouth and gave an uncomfortable little cough. “I am no judge of what women find attractive, Miss Valenti. You will have to meet them and see for yourself.”

“But are they tall? Strong like you?” She paused to give Sir Ian's shoulders and chest another glance, and she had no need to feign her show of appreciation. “That is important. I like men who are strong and tall because I am so tall myself, you see.”

Sir Ian cast a doubtful look at her in return, not even appearing to notice the obvious admiration she had just given his own physique. “Do you not want to know about their character?”

She dismissed character with a wave of her hand. “I have no need to fear about that. You would never choose for me a man who was not of good character.”

Sir Ian shook his head. “Miss Valenti, I am confused. You have insisted to me that happiness in marriage is what you seek.”

“And?”

He returned his attention to the board. “Since happiness in marriage is not determined by physical appearance, there is no reason to discuss how these men look.”

Mother of God
. She stared at Sir Ian in horror.
All of them are ugly
.

As the man opposite her concentrated on the chess game, Lucia began envisioning a lifetime of being chained to a husband who came up to her chin. What if he was old? Or had a big belly? Or bad teeth? It didn't bear thinking about such awful possibilities, especially in regard to the physical side of marriage. She wanted lots of babies, and she didn't want to make them with
a man who had bad teeth. She
had
to be allowed to choose her own mate.

It was time, she decided with renewed resolve, to pull out the heavy guns.

As they played chess, she managed to remove some of her hairpins without his notice. She stuck them in her pocket. After he made his next move, she stood up with a delicate, ladylike yawn.

Always the perfect gentleman, Sir Ian rose as well. “Do you wish to retire for the night and continue our game another time?”

“Oh, no,” she assured him. “I just wish to take a turn about the room and stretch a bit.”

In furtherance of that seemingly innocent endeavor, Lucia spread her arms wide and arched her back, drawing out that stretch as long as she could, then she gave a little moan of relief and lowered her arms. With another yawn, she shook her head, and, thanks to those missing hairpins, she succeeded in bringing down a few locks of her hair. Pushing them out of her face, she gave him a sleepy smile, then turned and walked away.

Sure he was watching, she put a subtle but deliberate sway in her hips as she walked to the flagon of wine and glasses on a table at the opposite end of the room. “Would you like a glass of
porto
?” she asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

She poured for both of them. Glasses in hand, she turned around, only to find he had left the table as well and had moved to the opposite side of the room. He was standing with his back to
her, studying one of the paintings on the wall. She had given him her best walk, and he was looking at a painting?

With a sigh, she brought both glasses to where he stood. He glanced at her just long enough to take his glass from her hand, then he returned his attention to the painting before him. Lucia looked at it as well. Much to her aggravation, she found that the picture in which he displayed such interest was a dark, rather dreary portrait of a wizened old woman in a black dress and a hideous cap.

Accidenti!
He was looking at that when he ought to be looking at her? Lucia lifted her eyes heavenward, shook her head, and turned away. What could a woman do with such a man?

She strolled about the drawing room for several minutes, watching him out of the corner of her eye, but he kept his back to her the entire time and never even glanced in her direction. Finally, she gave it up and resumed her seat at the chess table. “Sir Ian?”

“Yes, Miss Valenti?” he said without turning around.

“Are you ready to continue?” She sat down.

There was a long pause. Then he took a sip of wine, gave a brisk tug to the hem of his waistcoat with his free hand, and turned around. “Yes, I believe I am.”

They resumed the game. Lucia refused to be daunted by his lack of appreciation for her physical attributes, and after considering the situation
for several minutes, she changed tactics. “Sir Ian,” she began, “I have been thinking.”

“Uh-oh,” he murmured. “That's dangerous.”

She ignored that. “If I recall our first conversation on the topic of my marriage, you said my father had very strict requirements for my future husband, but you did not outline them in any sort of detail. May I ask what those requirements are?”

He moved his rook right into the path of her bishop, and looked up. “Prince Cesare requires a British gentleman. He offers a sizable dowry, but only to a man already possessed of considerable wealth, for he has no desire to support some impecunious, debt-ridden fellow with his treasury.”

She nodded with approval, for she wanted no fortune hunter for a husband. “So he must be rich. What else?”

“He must be a Catholic, of course. And he must be landed aristocracy with substantial estates. In other words, a titled peer or his eldest son, the higher the better.”

“Understandable. My father has much pride.” She paused long enough to capture Sir Ian's rook. Setting the chess piece at the side of the board, she said, “I confess, I like what I hear. Titled, many estates, and rich.
Magnifico!
I do love to shop.”

“I believe there was also some mention of a man of strong will who would make you behave yourself. If you overspend, such a man won't blindly give you more.”

She laughed, causing him to raise an eyebrow. “You find that amusing, Miss Valenti?”

“I find it delightful. I told you, I love strong men. I should walk all over a weak one.”

He raked a glance over her, but she could read nothing in his face, and when he spoke, his voice was bland. “I have no doubt of that whatsoever.”

“You are a strong man,” she murmured with a dreamy sigh. “Such a great pity I cannot marry you.”

That implacable expression did not falter. “Miss Valenti, marrying me would be out of the question. I have no title, only a knighthood. I have but one estate, and though it is prosperous, it is hardly worthy of mention. Your father would never consent to such a match.”

Per Diana!
she thought, almost at the point of despair,
the man is hopeless.

“I know. You are right, of course.” She reached out, put her hand over his. “It is so reassuring to know I have a man such as yourself to guide me, a man on whom I can rely.”

He turned his head, his attention diverted from the chessboard to her hand over his, then he looked up and met her gaze. His eyes were like polished steel. With deliberate slowness, he pulled his hand away. “Quite.”

Lucia knew a forthright approach was all she had left. Explained in the most effective way possible, of course. “Sir Ian, I shall be frank with you.”

“That would be a refreshing change.” He moved a chess piece.

“I wish to choose my own husband.”

“That goes against your father's specific orders. I am to choose.”

“All right, then. I should like to choose my own suitors. Make my own list from the men I meet. You can then approach them.”

“That would not be wise,” he said, his attention still fixed on the game. “You have a predilection for blacksmiths.”

“You would not choose for me a blacksmith, nor would Cesare allow me to marry him. Once I am in your English society for a bit, I shall meet young men and begin to have preferences. What would be the harm in allowing me to make my own list? Men you would find suitable, of course. Men of whom my father would approve. But also men I find attractive.”

“As I said, it would not be wise.”

Lucia made a sound of thorough exasperation and raked her fingers through her hair, scattering her remaining hairpins. The rest of her hair came tumbling down around her face and shoulders. How, she wondered, shoving hair out her face, could she make him understand?

“Sir Ian, I am Italian,” she said in a low, sultry voice. “I am young, and I am passionate.”

That did the trick. He looked up.

She gazed at him without blinking and chose her words with deliberate care, words that defied all his British proprieties. “I want a strong,
handsome, virile husband who can love me with a passion equal to my own.”

She shook back her hair, smoldering at this man's unreasonable refusal to compromise with her. “That man,” she said, “will never have need of courtesans. That man will sleep in no bed but mine. That man I will treat like a king, and I will be the light that brightens his day. That man will give me many children. That man will wake up in my arms every morning with a smile on his face, and he will be in love with me every single day of his life until they put him in the ground. It cannot be left to you or my father to decide who that man is.”

Sir Ian said nothing. He simply looked at her, and she could read nothing in his face. Absolutely nothing.

After a long moment of silence, she said, “I want to make my own list.”

“No.” His features might have been carved in granite.

“But—”

“No.” He made a gesture to the board. “It's your move.”

She wanted to scream with frustration. This man was impossible to reason with, and he must truly have no heart at all. There was no fire in him. No understanding of passion. Damn all the English. If she ever married a man as cold as this one, she would go mad.

Telling him all that, however, would not help her get her way. Nor would pushing the matter
any further at this moment. Forever the optimist, Lucia decided it would be best to make a strategic retreat and hope for better opportunities later. She looked down at the board and tried to return her attention to chess.

He had moved his knight. Lucia knew she had maneuvered him into a corner some time ago, and his play since then had not extricated him. Only one more move to make before she had him hopelessly trapped.

She started to reach out her hand, then hesitated and drew back. The thought crossed her mind that it was not too late to lose on purpose. It might help her cause. On the other hand, letting a man win at games had never been an appealing tactic to her. Besides, his curt, peremptory manner and the futility of all her efforts to make him see reason aggravated her beyond bearing. She made her move. “Check.”

He leaned forward at once and made a move of his own. “Checkmate.”

Her lips parted in astonishment. She studied the chessmen that remained on the board and realized that he had, indeed, checkmated her, and she had never seen it coming.

Lucia's mind flashed back over the past few hours, and only now could she comprehend the strategy behind his seemingly predictable play and the genius of his occasional haphazard moves. Once again, he had laid a trap for her, and she had fallen into it. A brilliant trap, she
had to admit. In hindsight, it was crystal clear. Why had she not seen it sooner?

“No one defeats me at chess,” she murmured, still unable to quite believe it. “No one.”

“Don't frown so fiercely. I first learned to play chess when I was a boy of eight. I've been playing this game longer than you have been alive.”

She did not find that comforting, and he must have sensed it. “You are an excellent player,” he told her, “and you have the imagination to defeat anyone, even players of greater skill than yourself. But, if I might be so bold as to venture advice, do not become overconfident and take your victory for granted too soon.”

“You distracted me in the midst of the game by bringing up that damnable list of yours.”

He smiled, shaking his head. “Excuses, excuses.”

“It is the truth.” But there was another truth, and she was fair enough to admit it. “Still, I have only myself to blame. My mind became preoccupied with trying to beguile you into seeing things my way, and I stopped concentrating on the chess.”

“So you did.”

Lucia slumped in her chair, discouraged all around. Resting her elbow on the table and her cheek in her hand, she stared at the board and watched his hands as he began putting chessmen back in their places. “And it did not even
work,” she added dismally, her feminine pride stung. “My charms are wasted on you.”

His hands stilled. “I would not say that.”

The sudden intensity in his voice startled her, and she looked up to find him watching her. In the lamplight, his face was as smooth and unreadable as ever, yet there was something in those gray eyes, something more of hot molten silver than of cool, polished steel, and she caught her breath. “You are human after all,” she whispered in amazement.

“Flesh and blood, like any other man.” He resumed sorting chess pieces. “And just as susceptible, it seems, to the charms of a beautiful woman.”

Her spirits brightened at those words. She leaned forward in her chair, quick to take advantage of the moment. “So, does that mean I can make my own list?”

He didn't even hesitate. “Not a chance.”

R
elentless. The woman was relentless. Ian leaned back in his carriage and rubbed a hand over his tired eyes, wishing he'd gotten even a few minutes of sleep the night before. But no, he'd lain in bed for hours, taunted by Miss Valenti's provocative maneuverings. Giving up on any possibility of sleep, he'd gotten out of bed and gone into Dylan's library.

Thank heaven his brother actually possessed a current copy of
Burke's Peerage
. Ian had spent the night poring over names, making a list of potential marriage partners for Miss Valenti. He'd only mentioned having an actual list in the futile hope that discussing her future husband would keep his mind on his duty.

He had confirmed with Grace this morning which of the men on his list were in town at present, and which ones might be seeking wives. Women like Lucia Valenti caused kings to abdicate and warlords to invade their neighbors; but perhaps some of the peers on his list would consider marrying Italy's version of Helen of Troy. If so, he intended to make sure at least some of those poor, clueless sods attended Lady Kettering's amateur concert three days hence. Perhaps one of the men who met her would be strong enough, handsome enough,
virile
enough to get her off his hands. Then Ian could go back to his own life.

It would not have cost him to let her have her way last night, to let her make her own list, choose her own possible marriage partners. As long as the man met Cesare's requirements and wanted to marry her, he could let her pick any fellow she wished. But she had angered him with her soft sighs and her bold gazes over his body, with her oh-so-innocent stretching and her hip-swaying walk. Thank God he'd had the presence of mind to go look at stupid paintings until he'd gotten his baser nature under control.

That woman was a cock-tease, and she knew it, too. It was beyond his understanding how she had managed to keep her innocence this long. Amazing that some tormented devil hadn't deprived her of it long ago.

It was only after all her attempts to manipulate him had failed that she'd tried a direct approach.
And when Lucia Valenti decided to be direct, she did it with a vengeance.

The carriage came to a stop, breaking into his thoughts. Ian looked out the window and stared at the front door of Lord Blair's London residence as he waited for his driver to open the carriage door. Blair, an earl in his own right, was also the cousin and heir of the Marquess of Monforth. Blair met every one of Prince Cesare's requirements. When it came to the expectations of Cesare's daughter, however, Ian was less certain.

In his mind's eye, he could still see her, a sultry hellion of a woman, sitting before him with her hair coming down and her dark eyes smoldering as she'd told him what sort of man he was supposed to find for her. Listening to that brazen speech of hers had played merry hell with his reason, for all he'd been able to think about at that moment was shoving aside the table and giving her a taste of what male virility really meant.

The carriage door opened, causing Ian to remember where he was and why. He straightened his cravat, cooled his blood, and thought of his duty. It was fortunate for Miss Valenti that he was a civilized man.

 

There had to be a way to bring Sir Ian around to her way of thinking.

Lucia pondered her situation as she sat sipping tea and eating iced lemon cake with Lady Kettering, Grace, and several young ladies who had
stopped to join them in the tea shop. As the others discussed the latest fashions, she thought over various strategies for how to deal with her present problem, a tall, dark-haired, very obstinate problem.

Women's voices eddied all around her, but the feminine voice Lucia heard in her mind was that of her mother.

Get Sir Ian on your side.

Her mother's suggestion to use her charm and magnetism hadn't helped her gain the man's cooperation last night. Perhaps she just needed to be more patient. Lucia sighed. Patience had never been one of her strengths. Besides, she only had six weeks. Patience was not something she could afford.

“Don't you agree, Miss Valenti?”

“Hmm?” She came out of her reverie with a start and looked at the young woman who sat with two other young ladies on the opposite side of the table. Lady Sarah Monforth, seated between her companions, was gazing at Lucia over the top of her teacup in inquiry.

Realizing she had just been asked a question, and with no knowledge of what that question had been, Lucia said the only thing she could think of. “I am so sorry. My mind was preoccupied. I was thinking of…of the…um…the current fashion in…um…necklines.”

“Necklines?” Lady Sarah smiled, but her big blue eyes narrowed a fraction, making her smile as artificial as the soft pink blush in her white cheeks. Golden lashes lowered, then lifted. “It
comes as no surprise that your thoughts are on that topic.” She turned to glance at the companions on either side of her. “Does it, ladies?”

As if on cue, Lady Wellburn spoke. “Indeed not. The neckline is clearly Miss Valenti's favorite part of a gown.”

Lucia stiffened at the stifled giggling of several young women at the table, and she did not miss the flash of satisfaction in Lady Sarah's eyes. For a moment, she felt as if she were back in finishing school, being teased by the girls who did not like her. Lucia bit back her desire to make a meowing sound in Sarah's direction. She smiled instead, her sweetest, prettiest smile.

“And that is as it should be,” Grace said, and turned to Lucia. “If I had as splendid a figure as you, my dear friend, I should make my necklines very daring.” She gestured to her own bosom with a sigh of regret. “Alas, I am not so fortunate.”

Lucia gave her a look of gratitude. “I think you are lovely,” she said, and meant it.

“I have heard the fashions in Italy are much more daring than they are here,” Lady Kettering said, and diverted the conversation by gesturing to the waiter who stood beside her holding a silver teapot. “More tea, anyone?”

 

“I must apologize,” Grace told Lucia as their carriage took them back toward Portman Square. “I should never have subjected you to Lady Sarah and her friends.”

“They happened by, and Lady Kettering invited them to join us. Do not apologize for what is not your fault. For their opinion, I care nothing.” That wasn't completely true, for it still stung to know she was being laughed at. “On the other hand, I should not wish to be unfashionable. Do you think I should have different gowns?”

“Lucia, do not let Lady Sarah and her friends bother you. The latest fashions are the only thing they know anything about. Frivolous idiots, all of them.”

“Perhaps, but Lady Sarah has something her friends do not. She has cunning, that one. She arranges for others to say what she wants said. It is a talent, that.”

“A malicious talent, but you are right. She does have her following. We are not among her set, however, so I hope we can succeed in avoiding them most of the time.”

“I hope so as well. But—” She hesitated, still feeling a hint of self-doubt. “Do you think I should change my gowns?”

“Again, no, I do not. I meant every word of what I said. If I had your figure, I should flaunt it shamelessly. Besides, the off-shoulder necklines and shawl collars so prevalent now would not suit you. To look well in them, you would need to bind your bosom, and what a waste that would be. Terribly uncomfortable, too, I imagine.”

“It is painful. When I first went away to school, I was a girl of only twelve, and though I was younger, I was far bigger than the other girls,
and they teased me all the time. So, I started binding my breasts with linen, very tight, to make them flatter. It hurt, but I did not want to be teased. The next time my mother came to see me, she was horrified. She told me to stop doing that. She said she loved me just as I was, I did not need to change for anyone, and I should be happy with myself as the good God made me.”

“Very sensible advice.”

Lucia smiled. “To some, my mamma seems to have a brain of feathers, for she is always late, forgets engagements, and spends money like water; but underneath all of that, she is of the most sensible.”

“You love her very much, don't you?”

“Yes.” Lucia stopped smiling. “I wish I could see her.”

“Are you asking my permission to do so?”

“If I did, would you give it?”

“I cannot.” Grace looked at her with compassion. “Please believe that I understand your feelings. When my mother died, I had been separated from her for years, and I will always regret that. But Ian has given me strict instructions not to allow you to see Francesca, and even though I know how hard it is for you to be separated from your mother, I must accede to Ian's wishes. He has done more for me than I can ever repay.”

“I understand.” She paused. “Sir Ian says I shall always have to be separated from my mother. That my association with her will be unacceptable to any gentleman because of what she is.”

“I fear that may be true.”

“I refuse to believe it.” She met the other woman's sympathetic gaze. “Since I must marry, I must find a man who loves me. If he loves me enough, he will accept my mother when we are married and give me his permission to see her. I will persuade him.”

“That may also be true.” Grace was silent for a moment, then she gave a little laugh. “We find our conversation back where it started, I think.”

Lucia frowned in puzzlement. “What do you mean?”

“You are supposed to be getting a husband, and men, heaven bless them, care nothing for women's fashions. I find most men are far more susceptible to a full bosom and a low neckline.”

Lucia laughed. “My thoughts exactly.”

 

Sir Ian, however, was not most men. Though he had admitted to a hint of susceptibility where she was concerned, Lucia had the feeling that wasn't enough to bring him around to her way of thinking. It was clear he intended to carry out her father's wishes to the letter, and none of her persuasive tactics the night before had served to change his mind. She had to get him on her side, but how?

At dinner, she studied him as a general about to engage in a battle campaign would study a map, trying to determine what method of attack to employ next, but it wasn't until late in the evening that she had a new plan in mind.

While others in the house were preparing for bed, Lucia went in search of her quarry. She found him in the library, which was perfect for her purposes. Peeking around the open doorway, she saw him seated at his brother's desk, his head bent over a letter he was writing. If this was a battle, the first step was to know the enemy. She intended to do just that.

He glanced up as she entered the room and immediately rose to his feet with a bow.

“I came in search of a book,” she said. “I hope I am not disturbing you?”

“Not at all.”

She moved toward the bookshelves at the other end of the room and began to peruse the titles there as he resumed his seat and his work.

Lucia waited, pretending vast interest in her task, trying to be patient, hoping he would open conversation. He finally did.

“Are you looking for a particular type of book to read?” he asked.

She glanced at him and found he was still writing his letter. “No, I do not think so,” she answered. “There are so many here, it will be hard to choose one.”

She ran her fingertips lightly over the spines of volumes closest to her. “There are several etiquette books here. Are they for Isabel?”

“Yes, I believe so.” He set down his quill and sprinkled blotting powder over the document before him, then blew it off and reached for sealing wax. “Though I doubt she's read any of them.”

“Why should she? Etiquette books are dull.”

“You would say something like that.”

She smiled. “Do not mistake my meaning, Sir Ian. I find etiquette books very useful.”

He set his finished letter aside and looked at her. “Do you, indeed?” His voice was skeptical.

She smiled. “They are most excellent for propping doors open.”

That got an answering smile from him, but if she thought that would cause him to give her his full attention, she was mistaken. He reached for a fresh sheet of paper, dipped his quill in the inkwell, and began again.

She moved a bit farther down the shelves, trying to think of a way to keep the conversation going, but he did it for her. “I am writing a report to your father,” he said. “Is there anything you would like me to say on your behalf?”

“That I wish to choose my own husband?”

“Your father's mind is not going to be changed on that point, I fear, regardless of what I may say.”

“Yes, he buys a man for me instead.”

“I will do what I can to make certain the man I recommend is not merely a fortune hunter. But you have to understand that when you are launched into society, you will be the victim of everyone's scrutiny. Possible suitors and their relations will insist upon knowing your background. They will gossip, and word will spread. That is something I cannot prevent. Given your illegitimacy, your mother's identity, and the incident at
Carnival, any gentlemen not after your money will have legitimate reservations about marrying you.”

“You are telling these men what happened in Bolgheri?”

“Yes. I am phrasing it as diplomatically as possible, of course.”

“Would it not be easier to find me a husband if you did not tell them?”

“It is not a question of what is easier. The news of what happened in Bolgheri is already spreading over Europe. It is bound to arrive here. I do not want any serious suitor to have an unpleasant shock, so I am defusing the damage early.”

“I see.” She moved further along the shelves, studying the books. “Your brother's collection of books is very fine,” she said, veering the subject away from herself.